


Cat Person

by The_She_Devil



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bathing/Washing, Blanket WS Warnings, Bottom Bucky, Cabin Fic, Captain America Steve Rogers, D/s undertones, Dissociation, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Modern Bucky Barnes, Past Bucky Barnes/Brock Rumlow, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Shrunkyclunks, Size Difference, Top Steve, Twink Bucky Barnes, only a little
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-27 21:14:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30128925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_She_Devil/pseuds/The_She_Devil
Summary: Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. Bucky Barnes is tasked with acclimating Steve Rogers to the 21st century. Together with Alpine, they are stuck at the Retreat for four weeks catching up on history, technology, and pop culture.Bucky is aware he might be playing with fire by wearing those leggings around Captain America. Steve is aware he should not try to take off said leggings, as much as that pretty Agent Barnes might want him to.Takes place during those few weeks when Steve was at the Retreat right after coming out of the ice.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 32
Kudos: 189





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There's a lot of boning in this. It's extremely self indulgent. I don't know how long it will be. It's about 37k words right now, with 6 chapters written so far. I have never released a fic in chapters at a time or without the entire fic being completed. I guess we'll see where we end up together lol.
> 
> As far as the hurt/comfort/dissociation, there is a brief scene where Bucky needs to get maintenance on his arm and spaces out. If anyone would like more information they can reach out to me, but honestly this fic is supposed to be really fluffy and fun so I'm trying not to lay on the angst too hard.
> 
> For clarity's sake, this takes place in 2015 because I said so. Avengers has not happened yet, and neither has TWS.
> 
> Thank you to my beta reader, who can be found at vviintersoldiier.tumblr.com. She is amazing!! Any mistakes are mine, after continuously agonizing over my fic after she has reviewed it.

Bucky Barnes was having a pretty shitty day. A pretty shitty few years, to tell the truth, and maybe even longer than that. He and his stupid, ugly, piece of shit arrogant fuckface—Bucky closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He and his boyfriend had broken up.  _ Dumped _ , his bitter brain helpfully supplied. He’d been dumped, and now here he lay on the floor of his new apartment staring up at the white ceiling and surrounded by moving boxes, because of course Brock had owned their old apartment and was going to sell it to his brother rather than let Bucky buy it, even though he’d paid half the mortgage for two damn years.

Whatever. Bucky had splurged on this one, the top floor of a brownstone in Park Slope just a stone’s throw away from Prospect Park. And it wasn’t one of those narrow ass shotgun style apartments either. Well, okay, but not  _ as _ narrow. He could comfortably fit not only a couch but also a coffee table, and maybe even a nice entertainment system. That was, if he had any furniture to speak of. (Brock had kept all that too.) But the cat tree looked nice by the window over there, his little Alpine lounging on the very top, snoozing in a sunbeam. Lazy girl.

So that was fine. It’s fine. He didn’t need any reminders of that asshole in his life anyway. He even had the smug pleasure of telling Brock he could keep everything because Bucky had a higher salary and could afford to buy all new stuff. That had made Brock really mad, because they both worked at the same agency, and Brock had been there longer and was a lot older than him, but Bucky had a higher clearance level. His ex’s face had gone all red, and then he’d stomped out the door. Bucky smiled just thinking about it.

“What’s that look for?” Natasha asked. He opened his eyes to see her hovering over him, her red hair framing her face as she looked down. She’d been helping him move all day, and by that he meant her bossing him around while he carried all these boxes up three flights of stairs.

“Nothing,” he replied, then amended: “It’s petty.”

She laid down next to him. “Is it about Brock?”

“Yes.” He did a poor job of biting back a smile. “I told him he could keep all our stuff because I made more money than him.”

Natasha huffed a laugh, grinning at the ceiling. “How considerate of you.”

“I’m the pinnacle of selflessness.”

There was a pause between them, where he could feel her eyes on him.

“You’re better off without him,  _ Mishka _ ,” she said softly. Her silly Russian nickname for him.

He heaved a sigh. “Yeah, I know.”

“I know you hated it,” she went on, softly. “Hiding like that.”

She was right. No one at work had even known he and Brock had been dating, let alone living together. Brock had said he wanted to keep his professional life and private life separate. He’d said he didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about their relationship; Bucky was Fury’s protégé, and he didn’t want anyone thinking he was garnering any special favors by sleeping together. It made sense at first, and Bucky was still in the honeymoon phase of their relationship, susceptible to Brock’s charms and getting wined, dined, and dicked down on the regular.

It meant Brock went out on Friday nights without him, because some of Brock’s friends were also their coworkers, and none of them knew Bucky existed outside of the agency. It meant Brock went to holiday work parties with a woman from accounting, who was young and pretty and straight, while Bucky stood alone in the corner watching his boyfriend from across the room like some weird, stalkery peeping Tom. It meant sitting alone in medical after getting injured during a mission, still shaky from a close call and afraid to be in there by himself, but God forbid anyone think Brock actually cared about him.

Brock would tell him he hated it too, alone in their apartment, in their bed holding Bucky, as he kissed him while he slid inside him. He said that Bucky was worth hiding for, and coming home to him made everything worth it, and didn’t Bucky think Brock was worth it too?

Manipulative asshole. Bucky didn’t even get to have the satisfaction of saying he dumped that waste of space. No, Bucky was the one who got dumped when Brock got promoted to commander of his own STRIKE team—in Washington, D.C., where he would be going without Bucky. He’d said it had been too complicated to try to work out the logistics, or get a transfer for Bucky, or be in a long-distance relationship. He’d said it was better this way.

It didn’t feel better.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Bucky groaned, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“Okay,” Natasha agreed amicably, and he was so grateful in that moment for her friendship. “Want to get some pizza and ice cream, and then go back to my place and watch Real Housewives so you can feel better about yourself?”

“Yes, please,” he replied, rolling onto his front before pushing himself up on his knees. He was about to get up when their phones simultaneously went off, which only meant one thing: Fury was summoning them. God damn it. Bucky dropped his head to his chest and pretended to cry, speaking through great big obnoxious sobs. “I just want to sulk in my pajamas! Is that so much to ask for?”

“Relax,” Natasha said, eyes skimming over the phone in her hand. “He said not to pack a go bag, so we’re not being sent out.”

“God, how much worse can this day get?” Bucky asked.

\---

As it turned out: a whole lot worse.

“What?” Bucky asked, staring down at a picture of one Steven G. Rogers, aka Captain America, aka the current bane of Bucky’s existence. Rogers was half encased in a melting block of ice, looking alarmingly corpse-like, but Fury assured them he was alive and well, presumably thanks to the supersoldier serum.

The next picture must have been taken for an ID or some kind of documentation. It was just a shot of Rogers’ face, intense blue eyes and mouth pinched in a frown. He looked mad enough to spit nails and piss vinegar.

In the last picture, he was in medical getting his blood drawn. Even Captain America couldn’t escape how small and vulnerable a hospital bed made someone look. It gave Bucky the shivers wondering what exactly they were going to do with that blood, and what they were going to do with Rogers. He stared at the metal fingers holding the pictures in his lap, knowing all too well what S.H.I.E.L.D. was willing to do to their own people in the name of scientific advancement.

“I  _ said _ ,” Director Fury enunciated slowly, nearly shouting, startling Bucky. He was sitting behind his desk, wearing that stupid leather duster even though it was a comfortable seventy degrees in here. “Captain Rogers needs to acclimate to the 21st century. He needs someone who can ease him in, guide him through history, technology, terminology, culture. And that person, Agent Barnes, will be you.”

“Yes, but why?” he asked, tossing the photos onto Fury’s desk.

“Because this is some level 7 shit, and we can’t have just any agent shacking up with Captain America.”

“James and I only have level 6 clearance,” Natasha pointed out.

“Exactly,” Fury replied, which made zero sense.

“But why  _ me _ ?” Bucky persisted, looking to Natasha for help, but she only shrugged. “I don’t understand this. Look at this face. Do you see this face? This is not a friendly face. In fact, I have one friend, and she’s sitting in this room.”

“Aww,” Natasha chimed in. “I’m your friend?”

“My heart is black, sir,” he went on desperately, sitting on the edge of his chair, eyes pleading. “As black as my liver from all the vodka I drink. I was voted Least Liked in high school—”

“That is not real,” Natasha said.

“I’m a cat person, for God’s sake!” he tried, voice perilously close to a whine.

“You done?” Fury asked, after a pause.

“No!” Bucky shot back petulantly.

“I understand you think this is below your paygrade,” he said. “But this is coming from above me, and you two are the only agents I trust.”

“Well?” Bucky held out his hands, indicating Natasha dramatically. This was crazy. Fury was insane. The old man had finally lost it if he was choosing Bucky—who wasn’t allowed to train baby agents anymore because he kept making them cry, and wasn’t allowed at press conferences after that one time he said “fuck” on live television (followed by a “you,” and it just so happened to be directed at the mayor of New York City, who in his defense was being a  _ huge _ douche that day), oh, and also he wasn’t allowed in the Starbucks downstairs after—whatever, the point was: Fury was crazy, because Natasha was right there and Bucky was assuredly not fit for public consumption.

Fury smirked. “Sorry, but she’s my favorite.”

“James is my friend  _ and _ I’m the favorite child?” Natasha murmured, a sly smile on her face. “If someone had told me this morning that this was the kind of day I was going to have, I’d have woken up earlier.”

“You’re the one who said you were ready to take lead on an op,” Fury reminded him.

“Yeah, but like, I don’t know, for a national security threat or some kind of international incident,” he complained, crossing his arms over his chest. “Where I get to be a dashing spy with cool gadgets and seduce women.” Natasha snorted and he made a face at her. “Bite me.”

“There’s all you need to know about your new ward,” Fury went on, in that impatient tone that meant he was done with the conversation. He tossed a dossier across the desk, but Bucky just let it hit his chest and slide to the floor. Fury looked at Bucky, unimpressed. Bucky stared defiantly into his eye. Natasha watched with far too much amusement from her seat beside him.

“Fine,” he sniped, as if he’d had a choice in the first place, and picked up the file begrudgingly. He pointed at Fury with it, looming over his desk. “But I want the record to reflect that I am extremely opposed to this.”

“I’ll be sure to let the stenographer know,” Fury deadpanned, already turning back to his computer to plot how he was going to ruin the next agent’s day, probably. “You leave tomorrow morning.”

“Great.”

As he made his way out, he figured at least it would allow him to put off unpacking all of his shit, and buying furniture, and grocery shopping, and also buying a refrigerator to put the groceries into.

“Oh, and Barnes?” Fury called. Bucky turned from the doorway to see him nodding at a framed picture on one of his bookshelves: a far younger Fury holding an orange tabby cat, hardly recognizable with hair and an actual smile on his face. Bucky was startled to see he was smiling now. It was terrifying. “What’s wrong with being a cat person?”

\---

They’d been driving for hours. Bucky was just about ready to crawl out of his skin if he had to listen to Agent Coulson fanboying over his idol Captain America for a second longer. Even poor little Alpine, stuck in her mesh cat carrier on Bucky’s lap, looked ready to claw her own eyes out. 

Thanks to Coulson, Bucky now knew more about Steve Rogers than he even knew about himself. Like did Bucky know that “Cap”—as Coulson so fondly referred to him—was born on the Fourth of July? Did he know that made Cap a Cancer? Did he know Cap went to Auburndale Art School before he joined the military? Did he know that Cap’s shield was made out of vibranium? Had he ever heard of vibranium? No? Well, here was fifty random facts about vibranium.

At this point, Bucky wouldn’t be surprised if Coulson knew whether “Cap” preferred boxers or briefs. He had never seen this side of his superior officer. He never wanted to see it again.

“Ah, here we are,” Coulson said, practically vibrating out of his seat. He cut a right onto an obscure dirt road that led them through a forest of trees and deposited them into a picturesque clearing, where a cabin sat beside a lake.

Bucky had never actually been to the Retreat, but he’d heard about it. The Hulk-proof cabin was built by Banner himself, with an impenetrable invisible fence and 24-hour video monitoring. Bucky didn’t like the idea of being watched 24/7, and he liked being unable to leave without clearance even less. He couldn’t imagine how Rogers felt about it, waking up in a box of ice in 2015 just to be shoved right back into another box. Based on that picture from yesterday, probably not good.

At least there weren’t cameras inside the cabin itself.

“Wait, are there cameras inside the cabin?” Bucky asked.

Coulson smiled, as if Bucky was crazy to even think such a thing. “No, of course not. Banner would never allow it.”

“But if he did allow it…?”

Coulson just kept on smiling as he exited the car. Bucky was definitely doing a sweep of the place as soon as he got in there. He wasn’t dumb enough to blindly trust the United States Government. He should know, he worked for them. So he’d packed a few gadgets. Also enough weapons to operate a small armory. Safety first.

Once he was out of the car, Bucky carefully placed Alpine on the roof of it, making sure his little white ghost was all right. They exchanged an intense look of shared trauma. “I know, boo. It’s over now.”

He let out a deep breath, cracking his neck before stretching his arms and legs so hard his body shook with it. As he righted himself, he caught sight of Rogers standing just outside the cabin door, his side-swept blonde hair shining in the sun, wearing a white tee shirt, belt, and a pair of extremely unflattering pleated khakis. He cut quite the formidable figure, feet planted, arms crossed, face the picture of simmering rage. He looked like Bucky had been right about his assessment of just how Rogers felt about all this.

Coulson, on the other hand, looked like a puppy whose owner had just returned home, jumping up and down all over their legs with unbridled excitement. Bucky sighed as he grabbed his things and approached the cabin, dropping his bags by his feet but keeping hold of Alpine. Rogers eyed his bags critically, before cutting his gaze back to Bucky.

“Let me guess,” Rogers said, voice deeper than Bucky expected, tone as dry as the desert. “They found you in a block of ice and sent you here to ‘convalesce’ too?”

Bucky barked out a surprised laugh. “No, they sent me here to babysit an adult man.”

“Ha,” Coulson actually said, smiling uncomfortably. “No one is here to babysit. This is just to help reintegrate you back into society.” He cleared his throat, making eyes at Bucky. “Captain Rogers, this is Agent James Barnes. Director Fury chose him personally to assist you, so you can be assured that he is the best of the best.”

Rogers was still scowling at him, jaw clenched hard enough to surely break some teeth. Bucky raised his eyebrows. Rogers kept standing there. Christ, like Bucky didn’t want to be doing literally anything else with his time besides standing here in a stare off with Captain America.

“Look, pal,” Bucky said. “I want to be here probably about as much as you want me here, so what do you say we get this show on the road?”

Finally, Rogers turned away, but not soon enough to hide a truly epic eye roll. This was going to be great. He could feel it.

“At least he’s honest,” Rogers muttered, shouldering past Coulson. Bucky trailed after, clumsily carting all of his luggage and Alpine over the rough terrain as he tried to keep up.

“All right, thanks for the ride,” Bucky called back with a polite smile, dropping his bags and pushing the front door closed even as Coulson was trying to get through it.

“But—wait—shouldn’t I—?”

“I’ll take it from here, sir,” Bucky assured him through the small gap left of the open door. “Yep, okay, bye!”

The heavy door finally latched shut, Bucky hastily throwing the lock with finality. He even engaged the security system with the personal code he’d been given. Then, he leaned his forehead against the door, closed his eyes, and took a grounding breath.

Just four weeks. That’s all he had to endure, four weeks. Yap about the Cold War, throw in some pop culture, and let Rogers know they had a Black president. So what if Rogers hated his guts and Bucky was the least social person Bucky knew? And he knew at least two people. He had a job to do, and he was going to do it.

\---

Agent Barnes had a metal hand. It was the first thing Steve noticed when the man—a kid, practically—had stepped out of the car, the sun gilding his long chestnut hair, longer than any army regulation. He’d placed a bag gently onto the roof of the car before stretching out his long legs, arms high in the sky. So high his shirt rode up, revealing a tan strip of skin and a tiny waist, the cut of his hip bones just visible over his low slung jeans and the very top of his underwear.

Perhaps the metal hand was the second thing he noticed. It articulated like a real hand, unlike any of those bulky prosthetics of his time that men came home from the war with. Barnes wore it so casually, unselfconsciously, as if it had always been a part of him. Hell, maybe it had been. God knew what was possible in the twenty-first century. A man could fly in an iron machine, another man could grow into a green monster, maybe Barnes could have been born with a metal hand.

Currently, Barnes was leaning against the cabin’s front door, seemingly collecting himself. Steve felt a pang of guilt at the way he’d spoken to him. This kid obviously wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t been ordered to. It wasn’t Barnes’ fault the brass wanted to keep Steve penned in under the guise of catching him up on the seventy years he’d missed until they figured out what to do with him.

After only a few moments, Barnes spun around and smiled politely. He was still holding onto that small bag, which seemed to be…moving? Steve opened his mouth to speak when the other man held up one metal finger as he put the bag down and pulled a small device out of his pocket.

“Just one sec,” Barnes said, the front of the device lighting up as the man poked at it with his flesh pointer finger. A small red light lit up on the top of the device, which Barnes aimed outwards as he slowly spun in a circle. The red light turned green, Barnes let out a sigh of relief, then slid the device back into his pocket. “Sorry about that. Bug detector. Can never be too careful with the U.S. government, ya know?”

Steve hadn’t even considered someone might have planted listening devices throughout the cabin or tapped the phone. Some spy he was. Peggy would have his hide for that— _ would’ve _ had his hide for that.

“So,” Barnes said, bending over to unzip the side of his curious bag. “This is Alpine. She’ll be staying with us.”

A small white cat very slowly stepped outside of the bag, warily taking in its surroundings. Steve glanced up to see Barnes looking a little chagrined. 

“We just moved yesterday, now we moved again,” he explained. “I feel kinda bad doing this to her two days in a row.”

“Oh,” Steve replied, because he wasn’t sure what else to say. The white cat—Alpine—carefully sniffed around the kitchen table. “I’ve never had a pet.”

“Too busy?”

“Too poor,” he said, just to be an ass. Dogs were a rich man’s luxury, and nobody kept cats as pets.

“Mmm,” Barnes simply hummed, nodding. Steve blinked. Usually, when he told people he’d grown up poor, they looked at him with pity in their eyes and told him how sorry they were that he’d been so destitute. He’d always hated that. He’d lived just fine with him and his Ma, and then after with his best pal Artie. They hadn’t had much, but they’d made do and he prided himself on his gumption.

“Well, Alpine’s cool,” Barnes went on, and Steve realized the kid was rambling. He was nervous, though he was trying very hard to hide it. “She likes to cuddle, which is nice. Some cats are assholes and they don’t let you touch them. She is sometimes. Don’t pet her belly, even if she looks like she wants you to. It’s a trap. She will fuck. You. Up.”

Unable to stop himself, because he was in a foul mood something fierce, Steve asked, “Is that what happened to your hand?”

Barnes actually looked at his flesh hand, first the top and then his palm, as if expecting to find some kind of wound there he’d forgotten about, before he must have realized exactly what Steve meant. He held out his left arm, pulling the sleeve of his shirt up to reveal it was much more than just his hand. Steve watched with wide eyes as Barnes wiggled his fingers and made a fist, his entire arm shivering and whirring, the small plates seamlessly realigning. Steve was mesmerized.

“Oh, you mean this.” The hard tone had Steve looking up, meeting very blue eyes lit with anger. “I lost my arm when my convoy was carting Tony Stark across Afghanistan. We ran over an IED—that’s a bomb. Truck flipped, crushed my arm, burned my skin off. My men who didn’t die in the explosion were gunned down by terrorists. I watched them all die. I thought they were watching me die, too.”

Eyes cast to the floor and ears burning with shame, Steve felt well and truly chastised. This was exactly why he’d gotten punched so many times in back alleys growing up. He never knew when to keep his mouth shut. Funny, over a decade— _ seven decades _ —later, he still had that damn chip on his shoulder he’d carried when he was small and sickly and needed to prove himself to the entire world.

“Stark made me this arm out of guilt,” Barnes continued, voice quieter. “S.H.I.E.L.D. made sure it would stick. Any other questions? Captain?”

“No, Agent Barnes.”

“You know, they really should have put in the history books how much of a dickhead you are,” Barnes said, scooping up his cat and heading towards the spare bedroom, his voice carrying all the while. “Then Coulson would have known about it and told me in the car along with the five thousand other things he told me about you!”

Steve didn’t flinch when the door slammed close.

\---

Bucky woke up with a shout. That fucking—God, his heart was pounding—that fucking  _ asshole _ Rogers had pissed him off, and then Bucky had stormed off to his room, and he couldn’t leave because he was absolutely not going out there with that fuckhead. He was standing on principle, goddamn it. So he had stewed and stewed and stewed, and when he’d finally fallen asleep hours later— _ bam _ . Right into a nightmare.

He couldn’t even remember what it was about. He just knew he was afraid, and it was very dark, and very quiet, and the room was steadily growing smaller, and he had to get the fuck out of there before he really had a panic attack. How great would that be, first day on the job wigging out on your mission. Fastest way to get home. Fastest way to get benched, and Bucky was not going to have to go through evaluation after evaluation with the shitty S.H.I.E.L.D. doctors because of Captain Dickhead. He had his own therapist, who was awesome and let him bring Alpine to appointments.

Shakily, he got up and wiped the sweat from his face, his hair wet against his neck. His shirt was soaked through too. He pulled it off to land on the floor somewhere with a wet sound, then hastily swung his bedroom door open into the cavernous main room of the cabin, Alpine darting out between his legs—and stumbled right into another body.

On instinct, he went on the offensive. He grabbed the man and bodily tossed him into the wall, reeled his metal fist back and swung. He connected with the man’s stomach, who doubled over, and Bucky used the opportunity to grab him by the back of the head and knee him right in the nose. As soon as he heard the man shout, the man turned into Steve Rogers.

“Oh, my God,” Bucky breathed, stepping away so fast he tripped over one of the end tables, sending a lamp crashing to the floor. He startled, over-correcting, and fell to the floor right on his ass. He stayed there, wiping his shaking hands down his face, and now that his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, it was easy to make out Rogers’ form and see his face—the face that Bucky had just smashed in. “Jesus Christ, Rogers! I could have fucking killed you!”

“That’s okay,” he gasped in a nasally voice, bent over and clutching at his stomach, little drops of blood running from his nose and dripping onto the floor. “I’m kinda hard to kill. Man, that thing packs a punch.”

“That’s the point!”

“Yeah.” Rogers righted himself enough to slide down the wall, knees bent, still grasping at his stomach. “I heard you yelling,” he said, and Bucky winced, face heating up in embarrassment. Rogers wiped at his nose, eyeing the blood on his hand for a moment. “I’m just battin’ a thousand tonight, aren’t I?”

“In my defense,” Bucky said quietly, “you kind of deserved it.”

Rogers laughed, then groaned. “Please don’t make me laugh.”

“Sorry.”

Bucky got up and retrieved some ice cubes from the freezer, sticking a handful of them into a plastic zip lock bag and wrapping it up in some paper towels. He crouched down beside Rogers and carefully placed the bag of ice onto his nose, making the other man hiss—“Sorry! Sorry!”—then worriedly watched the poor guy just breathe for a while, eyes closed tight and face twisted in a grimace beneath the ice.

Before long, Rogers was relaxing, the serum undoubtedly doing it’s work, and cracked an eye open, assessing.

“What?” Bucky asked.

“Nothing,” Rogers said, opening his eyes fully and removing the ice from his nose, which was already looking better. “I just can’t believe you got the drop on me like that. You’re strong.”

“Yeah, well,” Bucky demurred, “I work out.”

“I guess so,” was the quiet reply he received. 

Bucky suddenly realized how little he was dressed, in just his black leggings that left very little to the imagination, as Rogers’ sharp gaze traveled down his neck and across his bare shoulders, taking in his chest and abdomen. They went down his thighs and shins, and even the tops of his bare feet, before traveling back up to his left shoulder. Then, slowly, impossibly, Rogers reached out with one hand, fingertips trailing down where metal met skin, so gently he could barely feel it.

Bucky went still. His heart was beating so hard he was sure Rogers could feel it thrumming beneath his skin, and he probably had some kind of stupid look on his face because what the hell was even happening right now? Rogers’ touch was like a flame licking across his flesh, goosebumps breaking out over his skin and nipples hardening. He definitely did not imagine Rogers noticing. Then, Rogers’ fingers pressed more deliberately, sliding down his chest as his hand drifted away and back to his side. Bucky let out a breath he wasn’t aware he’d even been holding.

“Does it hurt?” Rogers asked softly, tone matching the stillness and quiet of the night.

Usually, Bucky lied. He was just enough off kilter tonight not to. “Yes.”

“Did you have a choice?”

The question brought Bucky up short. No one had ever asked him that before. No one had probably ever thought to. Who wouldn’t want a chance to get their amputated limb back? To be whole again, and be able to go back into the Army, or get recruited to S.H.I.E.L.D.? Making six figures in New York City working a kick ass job while serving his country beside his best (and only) friend?

But that wasn’t quite the right question to ask, now was it? Steve Rogers should have known better than that.

“I signed on the dotted line,” Bucky finally said.

Rogers smiled, slow and sad. “Me too.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is discussion in this chapter regarding topics from Steve's era to present, re: different notions at the time, phrases, feelings about sexuality, race, gender, etc. Nothing heavy but obviously these discussions need to be had if Bucky is catching Steve up to modern society. Bucky has the beginning of a discussion about sexuality and gender, but does not get to explain the full spectrum of the LGBTQ+ community. Please do not take this as Bucky being insensitive, he would be able to have a more robust conversation later. And obviously he does not speak for the entire community, he's just doing his best.

Bucky was sure it was going to be weird in the morning. He and Steve Rogers had had some kind of moment in the dark of night, and now in the light of day it was going to be weird with a capital W. He may have stalled a little, spending way too long tying his hair back into some iteration of a bun before pulling on some warm Sherpa socks and a chunky sweater he was practically swimming in, because no way was he going to make the mistake of being shirtless around Rogers again. But he really had to pee, and the cabin only had one bathroom.

When Bucky finally made his way out of his room, it was quiet in that way that let him know he was alone. Even after taking a piss, washing his hands, splashing some cold water on his face, and brushing his teeth, he felt alone. Taking a detour on the way to the kitchen, he peeked inside Rogers’ bedroom, but the guy was nowhere to be found.

“Shit,” he said to Rogers’ extremely tidy and very empty room, hands on his hips as Alpine weaved between his legs, eager for some breakfast. He looked down at her. “I lost him already, boo.”

Wait. Had it been his job to keep track of him? As he thought about it, he was pretty sure the mission brief only said to acclimate Captain America to the 21st century. It was like, the first sentence. It definitely didn’t say to make sure the guy didn’t escape or something. He would have noticed that, probably, when he skimmed through the thing. Besides, dude was like a hundred years old, he could make his own decisions.

Mostly confident he hadn’t just blown his first lead op and lost his job, Bucky decided he needed some coffee before any further course of action could be taken. On his way out, he paused at the doorway, noticing a bunch of file folders neatly stacked up on the desk. It took only a moment of consideration before his curiosity got the better of him. He was a spy, after all.

S.H.I.E.L.D.’s logo was on the front of every folder, along with a big red CLASSIFIED stamp. Bucky rolled his eyes. As if they could be any more obvious. Carefully, he flipped back the top file’s cover. These were personnel files with headshots, dated back to World War II. Morita, James, Pvt., aka “Jim.” Dugan, Timothy, Sgt., aka “Dum Dum.” Falsworth, James, Brig., aka “Monty.” Stark, Howard, weapons specialist for the Allied Forces, founder of S.H.I.E.L.D., CEO of Stark Industries. Phillips, Chester, Col., Director of the S.S.R. and founder of S.H.I.E.L.D. And on, and on, and on. The majority of them deceased, deceased, deceased.

The last file was a little crumpled, as if it had been gripped too hard. Agent Margaret Carter, aka “Peggy,” stared back at him, fresh-faced and formidable in her dress uniform. She was still alive. Ninety-four years old, according to the date of birth. Married, two kids, and a whole life while Rogers had slept.

No wonder this guy was so angry.

There was also a little notepad with the world’s smallest pencil beside it. Scribbled inside was a list of random things: “I Love Lucy,” a tv show; moon landing; Berlin Wall (up + down). A list of things to catch up on, Bucky realized. Christ, there were pages full of things to look up in here.

An open laptop sat there too, he assumed to look all that shit up. Bucky could not even imagine how overwhelming it must be to look at this list, type something into Google, and end up with about a bazillion results. Maybe it wasn’t so bad Bucky had been saddled with this job if it meant he could help the poor guy navigate some of this.

“ _ Mrrrow! _ ” Alpine screamed, starving to death.

“All right, all right,” he said, making sure everything was placed exactly as he’d found it. “Keep your pants on.”

Steve still hadn’t returned by the time Bucky had fed and watered Alpine and brewed some coffee. He poured a cup, splashed a little milk in there, and then stepped out onto the back porch to take in the crisp fall morning, his little ghost at his side.

They both tracked the blur traveling across the property, leaving a whirlwind of leaves and dust in its wake.

“Oh,” Bucky said to his cat. “There he is.”

He pulled up an Adirondack chair, placing his feet on the porch railing, and sipped his coffee as he watched Rogers pass by at least ten more times. At some point Alpine settled into his lap, keeping his belly warm. Finally, Rogers stopped, holding his side as he panted in the back of the property. He noticed Bucky and waved.

“How do you take it?” Bucky called, holding up his cup.

“Just black,” Rogers yelled back. Easy enough.

When Bucky returned to the porch, Rogers was sitting in another chair. His obscenely tight shirt was saturated with sweat, revealing every curve and plane of his ample chest, his tiny nipples hard and visible through the fabric. His biceps looked extremely biteable. He’d also thrown his feet up onto the railing, his athletic shorts sliding down his thick, powerful thighs to reveal creamy white skin dusted with dark hair. Just muscles on top of muscles on top of muscles. Fucking hell, had this man no common decency?

“Thank you,” Rogers said gratefully as Bucky handed him his cup. Bucky forced himself to look at his face, wincing as he noticed the yellows and greens around the other man’s nose and eyes; the bruises Bucky had given him last night were already in the last stages of healing. “Hey, don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”

“I’m still sorry,” Bucky said.

“If anyone should be sorry, it should be me,” Rogers replied. “My attitude was uncalled for.”

“Well, then I guess we’re both sorry.”

“Seems so, Agent Barnes,” Steve said with a wry grin. Bucky made a face. The name sounded weird in his mouth. 

“It’s Bucky,” he stated, shrugging at Rogers’ questioning gaze. “My name’s James but nobody calls me that except at work and my friend Natasha—she’s another agent. I figure we can get a little informal considering we’re stuck together for four weeks.”

“Bucky,” Rogers murmured, side eyeing him over his coffee. “A kid’s name for a kid.”

“I am not a kid,” Bucky protested, bristling. “I’m twenty-three.”

Steve buried his face in one hand. “Oh, my God, you’re a baby.”

“Excuse you,” he shot back. “I am not that much younger than you.”

“Son, I was born old,” Steve told him. Bucky very maturely did not roll his eyes while Steve regarded him skeptically. “They really let you be in charge of ops?”

“I mean, no,” he admitted reluctantly. “But sometimes Natasha lets me drive.”

That one got Steve cracking up, a great big laugh that burst out of him and made Bucky smile too. When he finally calmed down, he offered Bucky an amused grin. “All right, Bucky.”

“It’s a middle name generational nickname thing,” he said, trying to keep the petulance out of his voice, but he was getting a little tired of being teased. “I’m like the fifth one or something.”

“No, it’s nice,” Rogers assured him, then smiled into his coffee. “Charming. You can call me Steve.”

“Okay,” he said, then leaned back in his seat, trying not to focus on the fact that Steve Rogers thought he was  _ charming _ . “What’s on the agenda for the day, Steve?”

“You tell me. You’re the one driving this spaceship.”

“Well, okay,” Bucky began slowly, letting out a deep breath. “We should probably talk first about the words you can’t say anymore. Just get that whole uncomfortableness out of the way.”

“Give it to me straight, soldier.”

“So, we have a Black president now.”

“No shit,” Steve cut in, awed in the good kind of way.

“Yeah. Name’s Barack Obama. And here are the things you  _ cannot  _ call him.”

\---

There were a lot of words Steve shouldn’t say anymore. Some of them he’d never said in the first place. Especially the one that was so bad Bucky only referred to it by one letter.

Bucky was also vehement about what was and was not appropriate to call a woman, but what was considered respectful hadn’t changed very much. He could never imagine addressing Pegs with any of these terms, not if he didn’t want her to knock his block off. If he’d tried with the NSO performers, they would have eaten him for lunch.

Then there were the rules. Some people were allowed to say certain words that other people were not allowed to say. Bucky said that as a white man, Steve was not really allowed to say any of them, which seemed simple enough to him. He would never want to say them anyway.

“Especially as a straight white man,” Bucky said around a mouthful of eggs as they sat at the kitchen table eating breakfast.

Steve paused with his coffee halfway to his lips. “What does that mean?”( 1)

“Like as a straight white man, you basically can’t say anything,” Bucky reiterated. “And you shouldn’t.”

“What does ‘straight’ mean, in this context?” he asked. “Straight and narrow?”

Bucky blinked. “Oh. Okay, wow, I didn’t know you predated that. Um, straight means that you’re heterosexual. You’re only attracted to people of the opposite sex.”

“Oh,” Steve said, nodding in understanding. “Back then we called it ‘going straight,’ but…it meant when you stopped being homosexual.” He narrowed his eyes. “Do people know about—”

“Okay, that is definitely not a thing,” Bucky interrupted, rolling his eyes. “You don’t just 'stop' being homosexual, and we don’t really call it that anymore either. Gay is homosexual, or lesbian if you’re a woman but they also refer to themselves as gay. If you’re bisexual, you like both. Some people just identify as queer. There are actually a lot of other sexualities, and gender—”

“Both men and women?” Steve interrupted, brain stuck on that information. His heart was pounding. “You can do that too?”

“Yes, you can ‘do that too,’” Bucky replied, frowning. He leaned back in his chair, eyeing Steve warily. “You can love whoever you want. We can even get married now.”

Steve met Bucky’s eye. “We?”

“Yeah,” he replied, chin raised in a challenge. Steve quickly realized what was happening before Bucky even continued. “I’m gay. Just broke up with my boyfriend, in fact—well, he dumped me, but—whatever, it doesn’t matter. I’m as gay as the day is long. Got a problem with that? Because if so, you better get over it real quick if—”

"Me," Steve blurted out, because he did not want this gorgeous kid thinking he believed there was something wrong with him or that he was disgusted. Most of all, he did not want to be mistaken for the same people he’d lived in fear of all his life.

Bucky frowned. "What?"

"I was going to ask if people knew about me," he clarified. "I'm bisexual."  Bucky seemed stunned into silence, wide eyes looking at Steve as if he’d grown an extra head. Steve faltered. “That’s…that’s how you say it, right?”

“Yeah, that’s how you say it,” was the strangled reply he received. “Or bi for short.”

Steve was suddenly alarmed, confidence sharply waning. He’d quickly learned growing up that desiring men wasn’t something you advertised. It was a secret, a dirty one at that. You had to go to the right bars in order to meet people like you, people who were also hiding. God forbid the wrong person find out. It cost you your livelihood, your family, your friends—sometimes even your life. While Bucky had said it was okay to like both men and women now—and boy, was Steve relieved to know there was a name for himself—he certainly didn’t look like it was okay.

“You said that was okay now, right?” he asked timidly.

“Mmm hmm,” Bucky squeaked out, clearing his throat and seemingly coming back to himself. He shook his head a little before smiling, but his eyes still looked wild. Abruptly, he stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the wooden floor as he hastily cleared the table and immediately set out on washing everything in the sink even though a machine existed now that washed your dishes for you, and there was one right there. “Yes! It is super okay that you are attracted to both men and women. I am positive the LGBTQ+ community will be thrilled, especially all of the men who previously thought a beefcake like you was unobtainable.”

Rambling again—nervous. Steve wasn’t the military’s— _ hadn’t _ been the military’s top tactician for his inattention to detail. He was making Bucky flustered. Had been earlier, too; he’d seen the way Bucky had looked at him back out on the porch that morning, those pretty blue eyes roving all over Steve’s body.

He bit back a smile as he pulled out his small notepad to jot down “LGBTQ plus community” to look up later on the computer he’d been given. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Bucky scrub the dishes, a little clink each time his metal hand met ceramic. Wisps of hair fell from his messy little bun that he blew out of his eyes every so often. That big blue sweater practically swallowed the kid up, making him seem young and precious, but Steve knew just how strong he was. It fell to just above the tops of his thighs, his long legs wrapped up in a pair of black stockings—leggings, they called them, though Steve had never seen a man in them yet. He’d been barefoot last night, but now he wore these thick socks printed with fuzzy little sheep; there was even what looked like a cotton ball on the back of the very top of each sock. A tail, Steve realized. Cute.

Bucky looked warm and soft and sleep rumpled. He looked like a lazy Sunday morning in bed when it was cold outside. Steve wondered if Bucky even knew how damn tempting he looked. He wondered, if he slid his hands up that sweater, if Bucky’s tiny waist would fit neatly in his hands. He had a feeling Bucky would let him find out.

“Not sure how the conservative media will take it,” the man went on, and Steve realized he’d been full on staring. Thank God Bucky was busy avoiding Steve’s gaze with all of his might as he did the dishes. “I mean, I guess I can figure. They’re going to flip their shit. But, you know, can’t please everybody.”

“What’s the conservative media?”

Turning towards him, Bucky finally stopped talking. “Hoo boy. How can I put this? Okay, you remember all those words I said you couldn’t say?”

“Yes.”

“They say all of them,” he replied very seriously. “And they’re all straight white men.”

\---

Bucky was f-u-c-k-e-d fucked, because Bucky was gay, and Steve was freaking bi, and now he was having a crisis as he stood inside of the bathroom staring at himself in the mirror. 

Steve had touched him last night, on his chest. His fingers had seared his skin like a hot brand, and his enchanting blue eyes had most assuredly zoned in on Bucky’s nipples as they’d beaded up from said touch, and his smile had been sad and devastating, and then—

And then he’d said, “I’m bisexual,” in that sexy deep timbre, and excused himself to take a shower while Bucky finished the dishes. And then—and  _ then _ , as Bucky was  _ unsuspectedly _ sitting on the couch answering work emails on his laptop, the bathroom door had opened, and Steve Rogers, troll extraordinaire, in slow motion and  _ full technicolor _ , stepped across the threshold in a cloud of steam.

His blond hair was dark when wet, fair skin pink from the hot shower. He had the biggest traps Bucky had ever seen, along with the juiciest pair of tits, rivulets of water just gliding over the swell of them and dripping down his washboard abs all the way to the towel wrapped around his trim waist. If one could even call what was barely held together with one large, meaty hand a towel; it was so small it was more like a washcloth, if Bucky had to guess, or perhaps a sample swatch from a fabric store.

Bucky had gulped like a cartoon character. Steve was, hands down, a mountain of a man. A slab of prime beef . He was every wet dream Bucky had ever had growing up and maybe some he didn’t even know he’d had.

Movement had caught Bucky’s attention, Steve slicking his hair back with one hand, and Bucky would bet his one remaining arm he was flexing his bicep. He wasn’t even being subtle about it. The little shit was smiling. “Shower’s free. Plenty of hot water.”

“Plenty of fucking towels around here too,” Bucky griped, as he slammed his laptop closed and went to grab clothes to bring into the bathroom with him. What a novel idea. “You didn’t have to grab a  _ tea towel  _ from the kitchen to shower with. God.”

Then he’d slammed the door on Steve Rogers’ dumb handsome smug face.

“Fuck,” he said now, as he toweled his hair dry, scrunching it a little so it’d dry in waves, not that he was trying to look pretty for anyone or anything. Alpine watched him lose his mind from her perch on the closed toilet lid. “Don’t judge me. You don’t know me. You don’t know my life.”

_ I literally don’t care _ , his cat’s eyes told him. Great help she was.

When Bucky emerged from the bathroom, much less dramatically than the porn star he was currently staying with had, he was wearing a pair of slim floral print joggers and an oversized shirt that may or may not fall off one shoulder if Bucky moved a certain way, feet stuffed into a pair of comfy Uggs. Steve had exchanged the hand towel for another pair of pleated pants, belt, and button down shirt. He was sitting on the couch squinting at the S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued laptop that had been on his desk earlier.

“Whatcha looking at?” Bucky asked, falling into the couch and tucking one knee under himself to peek over Steve’s shoulder. He smelled like a lumberjack, like crisp clean pine and masculinity. Oh, look at that, Bucky’s shirt had slipped down his flesh shoulder already as he leaned in close. 

Steve turned his head and opened his mouth to speak, seeming to lose his train of thought at the sight of Bucky’s bare shoulder. He met Bucky’s eye, who blinked innocently, then turned back to the computer with a huff of laughter and a shake of his head.

“I have this list of things to do,” he said, picking up the notepad beside him. “I started it when everyone was giving me all these recommendations and there were so many I just couldn’t remember them all. Right now I’m on Elvis Presley.”

“Mmm,” Bucky murmured, a little tentatively. “Who gave you that recommendation?”

“A gentleman named Clint Barton.”

Bucky snorted, because, first of all, Clint was anything but a gentleman. Second, “Makes sense.”

“What was the ‘mmm’ for?” Steve asked. “Is something wrong with Presley? I have to say, despite a lot of these articles, he didn’t invent this type of music.”

Bucky gave Steve a slow smile, impressed. “You’re pretty sharp. He didn’t invent this type of music, or even his performance style. He just culturally appropriated it from the Black community and marketed it to white people and made lots of money off of it.”

Steve made a face. “Maybe I’ll come back to him later.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed. “What else is on your list?”

“Mr. Barton also said pizza.”( 2)

Eyes wide, Bucky gasped loudly and dramatically, grasping at Steve’s bicep, which, damn okay. Solid. But—“ _Pizza?_ You’ve never had _pizza?_ You predate  _ pizza _ ?”

“I suppose so,” Steve replied, his smile half amused, half puzzled.

“What the hell has S.H.I.E.L.D. been feeding you?” Bucky demanded, standing up from the couch and stomping over to the kitchen. He opened the cabinets to find the staples: canned beans and vegetables, spices, sugar, flour, huge sacks of potatoes and rice. Next he went to the fridge and saw it stacked with protein shakes, cold cuts, fruits and vegetables, and a bunch of raw meats. In the freezer, even more frozen portions of meat. Bucky gagged. “They’re making you cook?”

Steve was still smiling like Bucky was crazy. “I take it you don’t? Cook?”

“I mean, I can,” he said. “Under duress.”

Steve snorted an ugly laugh that had no right to be so endearing. “Okay, Chef Boyardee. What do you suggest then? I don’t see any restaurants around here.”

“Now that,” Bucky announced, jumping over the back of the couch to land back next to Steve before swiping his phone off of the coffee table, “is the reason why we have interns.”

\---

“All right, let’s see what kinda taste these people got,” Bucky said from the kitchen’s walk in pantry, rifling through what sounded like glass bottles.

The pizza had just arrived, sitting in boxes on the kitchen table, but Bucky had gone to fetch some drinks, and Steve didn’t want to be rude and start eating without him. Even if it smelled  _ really _ good, and they’d waited an hour and a half for a harried intern to bring it to them, and Steve was getting pretty grumpy. He drummed his fingers against the table, sure his supersoldier metabolism was going to start eating his own organs soon.

“No,” Bucky said seemingly to himself, voice muffled. “No. Oh, my God,  _ eww. _ Here we go…and…yes.” He emerged with a triumphant expression, a bottle of wine in each hand, one red and one white. He looked at the pizza boxes and Steve waiting there, starving to death. “You don’t have to wait for me. Wine goes pretty good with pizza.” He held up the bottles. “Got a preference?”

“Oh, no, it’d be a waste on me,” Steve stated, waving Bucky off.

“You don’t like wine? There was some beer in there.”

“The serum,” Steve clarified. “Can’t get drunk anymore.”

“Well, you don’t have to drink to get drunk,” Bucky pointed out, rifling through a drawer for a corkscrew. “You can enjoy a glass of wine, can’t you?”

“Eh, it’s not the same,” Steve replied with a shrug. Bucky flicked his eyes over at him as he began opening the wine.

“Seriously, Steve. Eat.” Then he got this calculating look on his face, eyes narrowing as his gaze bounced around the kitchen. “Hmm.”

“What?” Steve asked while opening the top box to reveal a steaming hot pile of cheese, the smell engulfing him—tomato and garlic and oregano and basil—so strong and enticing Steve almost passed out. His stomach rumbled loud enough for the nearest neighbor to probably hear it, but Steve didn’t care. He was  _ hungry _ .

“Do you know who Dr. Banner is?” Bucky asked.

“Hmm?” Steve murmured distractedly, pulling a piece of the pizza onto a paper plate supplied by the restaurant or maybe the intern. Steve didn’t care, he was too enthralled by the way the cheese pulled in strings. “I know he built this cabin. I know he’s the Hulk.”

“You know how he got that way?” Bucky asked, a little hesitantly. Steve shook his head, examining his plate. He wasn’t really sure of how to eat this. Bucky said you didn’t use utensils, so he just picked up the plate along with the pizza, slid the end off of the plate, and took a huge bite.

“Oh, boy,” Steve said around a mouthful, unable to hold back his moan of pleasure.

Bucky grinned. “Right?”

Pizza was  _ aces _ . It was hot and cheesy and gooey and savory and greasy and salty and everything that Steve hadn’t known he’d needed in his life. He regarded Bucky with wide eyes. “And people eat this all the time?”

“Pizza joint on every corner,” Bucky told him. He poured himself a glass of white wine, sniffing it before taking a sip. He shrugged with his face, then put the glass down and started opening and closing cabinets, a determined look on his face as he searched for something. “Okay, so, there’s good news and there’s bad news. The bad news is, Banner is a scientist who tried to replicate the supersoldier serum and turned himself into a giant green rage monster.” 

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Steve breathed, pizza halfway to his lips. He turned to Bucky, incredulous. “What could possibly be the good news?”

“The good news,” Bucky called from under the sink, “is that he’s a  _ scientist _ who can’t get drunk either, which means there must be some kind of bathtub gin lying around here somewhere.”

“Bucky, if there is something capable of getting  _ me _ drunk, it has to be lethal to everyone else,” Steve admonished. “He wouldn’t just leave something like that out where anybody could—”

“Found it!” Bucky exclaimed, brandishing a glass bottle of clear liquid. He brought it over with a glass from the cabinet. “Here, you open it. I don’t want the fumes to knock me out.”

The bottle read “ _ Hulk Juice: Do Not Drink!!! _ ” and had a crude drawing of a skull and crossbones with XXX written beneath it, all in black marker. Steve eyed it dubiously. “I don’t know about this.”

“Come on, you said you’re hard to kill, right?” Bucky shot back as he grabbed his glass of wine and joined Steve at the kitchen table, eyes bright with mischief. He placed his elbow on the table, swirling the wine in his glass, his bare shoulder visible from that damned oversized shirt falling down one side, alluring in a way that Steve could never resist. With his metal hand, he picked up a slice of pizza and folded it in half before biting the very tip off of it.

“That doesn’t mean I like to test it,” he replied with a shake of his head, then popped the cork and carefully sniffed the opening. He recoiled hard, blinking away the stinging in his eyes, and poured himself a couple fingers.

“Cheers!” Bucky said, clinking his glass against Steve’s. Steve blew out a breath, cheeks puffing, then tentatively took a sip, Bucky watching with avid eyes as he swallowed. “Well?”

Steve smiled. “Kinda tastes like apples.”

“Yes!” Bucky exclaimed, punching the air. Suddenly, the young agent froze, all mirth leaving him as he cocked his head and listened.

It could be the intern or another agent, but Steve didn’t hear any wheels on the gravel drive that would signify an approaching vehicle. Immediately, his heart rate picked up, defenses on high alert. He was about to open his mouth to speak when Bucky grinned and yelled, “Time!”

A woman emerged from the shadows, her fair skin stark against her fiery red hair and all black ensemble. She wasn’t dressed for a fight exactly, but her boots were made for combat and there was the unmistakable outline of a double gun holster beneath her leather jacket. She might have been unimposing, but she moved confidently, dangerously, and it was clear to Steve that anyone would be foolish to underestimate her.

Steve burst out of his seat and placed himself in front of Bucky, who was still sitting at the table, unperturbed. The woman watched the movement with keen eyes and smirked, amused. “Stand down, soldier.”

“Nat!” Bucky exclaimed, standing on tiptoe to peek over Steve’s shoulder. A metal hand landed on his hip, solid but gentle, the woman’s eyes taking that in too, along with the dinner and drinks on the table. “What was my time? Did I beat my time?”

The woman—this must have been the Natasha Bucky had mentioned—glanced at her watch and smiled ruefully. “Not today. One thirty-seven.”

“Damn it,” Bucky hissed.

“What was it?” she asked, as she crossed her arms and leaned back against the kitchen island.

“Change in air pressure from when you opened the window. Took a few seconds to reach over here. Goddamn it.”

“Someone want to clue me in?” Steve interrupted, having had about enough of this.

“This is Agent Natasha Romanoff,” Bucky explained excitedly as he slid out from behind Steve, glass of wine still in hand. “We play a game to see how long it takes me to notice she’s broken in.”

“Interesting relationship,” he commented, eyes bouncing between the two of them and the familiar way with which they regarded each other. Bucky lit up around her in a way he hadn’t seen in their limited time together yet. Even Alpine emerged from her spot on the couch to glide around Romanoff’s legs, begging for attention. Steve was startled to recognize the hot stab of jealousy rushing through him. He smiled politely. “Pleased to meet you, Agent Romanoff.”

“Captain,” she replied, way too knowingly.

“What are you doing here?” Bucky asked. “I just saw you yesterday. Checking up on me already?”

“Someone has to make sure you haven’t killed each other yet,” she said.

“I would never—” Bucky protested, before Steve added, “In all fairness, Bucky, you did try to kill me last night.”

“You did, did you… _ Bucky _ ?” she asked in an accusatory tone, turning to her friend with a raised eyebrow, but there was something Steve was missing. Bucky’s expression was petulant, the color in his cheeks rising as he took a sip of wine, pointedly ignoring her gaze. “Can I see you outside for a minute?”

“Be are be,” Bucky said, leaving his glass on the kitchen island and grabbing his jacket off the peg by the back door. Steve didn’t know what that meant, but he had other pressing matters to attend to, such as seeing how much pizza he could stuff into his face in the time it took for them to return.

\---

“You’re in love with him,” Natasha announced without preamble, as they sat on the back steps of the porch.

“Natasha, it’s been 24 hours,” he groused, hands shoved into his pockets. It was fucking freezing out here. “I am not in love with him.”

“You loooove him,” she sang, leaning in close. “You want to maaaarry him.”

“Would you be quiet?” he hissed, glancing back at the kitchen door. “He has super hearing, he might hear you.”

“You want him to put a baby in you,  _ Bucky _ .”

“Oh, my God,” Bucky said, dropping his face into his hands. “So I told him to call me Bucky, that does not mean I’m in love with him or want to marry him. We’re stuck here for four weeks, I’m not going to let him call me Agent Barnes the whole time.”

“But you  _ would _ let him put a baby in you,” she said.

“Well, yeah,” Bucky said with a slow grin, as if it was obvious. “Have you seen the guy? I want him to crush my head with his thighs.”

Natasha let out a burst of laughter that carried out across the lake nearby. “You’re so depraved.”

“You started this conversation.”

“What did he mean back there?” she asked. “When he said you tried to kill him last night?”

“It’s no big deal,” he replied, shrugging, feeling his cheeks turn hot. “I just had a bad dream, and he heard me or whatever and came to check on me, and it was dark and I was still kinda fucked up from the dream so I attacked him.”

She clicked her tongue with a sympathetic tsk, rubbing his back gently. “Mishka.”

“It’s fine,” he insisted, rolling his eyes. “It was more embarrassing than anything else. I broke his nose, probably a rib or two. Thank God for the serum or I would’ve had to call Coulson and listen to him cry the entire ride back to HQ. Then I would have had to face Fury, maybe even that old creep Pierce.” He shook his head. “You staying for dinner or what?”

“No. I really did come by just to check on you. It’s your first lead on an op.”

“I’d hardly call this an op,” he muttered.

“Seventy years on ice is a long time,” she told him, clearly worried, and that bothered him more than anything else. “You don’t come back from that the same man you were when you went in.” She paused for a moment, speaking so quietly even he could barely hear her. “He’s got Erskine’s serum. He’s stronger than even you.”

Bucky bristled. “I’m not some wet-behind-the-ears baby agent. I can handle myself.”

“Trust me,” she shot back, smirking again. “I can see you’re not the one I should have been worrying about.”

“Relax,” he told her, as he stood to go back inside. “Nothing’s going to happen. Besides, it’s probably like, super frowned upon to defile a national icon.”

Suddenly, Natasha grasped his wrist. He turned back to see her green eyes bright from the light of the moon, expression ominous.

“Be careful, James,” she warned. “Four weeks is a long time and no time at all.”

\--

Steve was pleasantly full and pleasantly buzzed, and he could not remember the last time he had felt this way. He couldn’t be certain he’d ever felt this way; even in the bars back before the military, there was always the low hum of anxiety just below the surface. You could never let your guard down and enjoy a good buzz if you knew what was good for you. Not when this could be the night there happened to be a raid and you had to run. Not when this could be the night your coworker or neighbor saw you leaving with another man because you were too drunk to pay attention.

But here, in this cabin, on this couch, with this gorgeous young fella with an easy smile and truly ugly boots, Steve felt loose and light. He felt like the first day in his big new body: unbridled and untouchable, like he could accomplish anything now that he had the means. And  _ boy oh boy _ did Bucky make him want to do something reckless.

They were sitting on the couch in front of the television with Alpine curled up in an armchair nearby. Bucky was flipping through what had to have been hundreds of titles of movies and television shows on a program called Netflix. He said it had started as a mail-in service that you could order movies or TV shows from, sending them back once you were finished watching them. Now, everything was available at the click of a button on a handy remote control so you didn’t even have to get up to change a dial.

Bucky’s legs were curled beneath him, his blue eyes illuminated by the light from the television screen. Their drinks had been traded for steaming mugs of hot chocolate that came in little white packets, complete with tiny marshmallows. Bucky said only heathens made their hot chocolate with water as he heated up a pan of milk on the stove. Currently, he was holding his mug in his metal hand, unaffected by the scalding temperature. His hair laid in waves over that bare shoulder, the very ends curling, and Steve’s fingers itched to brush it back, see if it felt as soft as it looked.

“And  _ then _ , in like the fifth one, they brought in the Rock,” Bucky explained animatedly. He briefly turned to Steve, maybe realizing he’d been rambling on for a while now about these racecar movies, because he suddenly seemed endearingly shy, brushing his hair back behind his ear. “He’s a wrestler from TV,” he continued, a little more subdued. Steve nodded as if he understood. “So he’s a federal agent—”

“And none of these people are superheroes?” he cut in.

“No.”

“Then how do they survive all this?” Steve asked, frowning. “Can you really parachute cars out of an airplane?”

“Steve,” Bucky told him, as if he was an idiot. “You have to suspend disbelief if you want to enjoy these movies for what they are.”

“Which is?”

“So ridiculous they’re amazing,” he replied with a grin. “I know I should probably be starting with the classics but this  _ is _ a classic. They’re so dumb. It’s great. They just released the seventh one this year.”

“Seven?” Steve asked, dubious, as Bucky selected the movie.

“Yeah,” he said, then laughed at Steve’s expression. “Don’t worry. I won’t make you watch all of them.”

Steve shrugged as  _ The Fast and the Furious _ title sequence began. “What else have I got to do?”

\---

They got to movie number two, ridiculously titled  _ 2 Fast 2 Furious _ .

“Is the third one  _ 3 Fast 3 Furious _ ?” Steve snarked.

Bucky cracked up. “Shut up.”

Then, later: “He’s going undercover? Again? Isn’t that the plot of the first movie?”

“No, in the first movie he’s an undercover  _ FBI agent _ ,” Bucky explained. “Now he’s an undercover  _ fugitive _ working for the FBI.”

“Why would they ask a fugitive to do this? Surely, there’s someone who works for them who can go undercover.”

“Steve, what did I tell you?”

“Suspend disbelief,” he muttered, sinking down in his seat.

\---

“So what did you think?” Bucky asked from his corner of the couch. He was slouched down low, almost laying down but his knees were curled to the side, socked feet pressing on the edge of the coffee table, his boots abandoned on the floor. His eyes were heavy, slow to open when he blinked. It wasn’t very late, but it was obvious Bucky was exhausted. He doubted the poor kid had gotten much sleep last night, between his dreams and his scuffle with Steve.

“I think it’s time for bed,” Steve said, turning off the television and blanketing them in darkness, save for the light of the moon cutting through the windows. Predictably, Bucky grinned, lopsided and tired. Christ, but he was pretty. 

“Why, Captain Rogers.” He poked Steve in the thigh with one of his feet; tonight, his socks were bright orange and adorned with pumpkins. “Trying to get me into bed?”

Feeling bold, and frustrated, and dangerous, he sat up and leaned over Bucky, one of his knees pressing into Bucky’s hip, his hands braced against the couch on either side of Bucky’s head. Bucky’s eyes flew open, wide awake now, breath catching in his throat as he shrank back, pushing himself into the cushions. All talk, this little tease was, but one day Steve was going to make him put his money where his mouth was.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, so close he could make out the little smattering of freckles across Bucky’s nose. He brushed the hair off of Bucky’s shoulder, so soft and scented with coconut, his fingers trailing down the warm skin of that damn bare shoulder. Those big blue eyes were riveted to his, looking up from beneath his dark eyelashes, pink lips parted. “When I want to take you to bed, trust me…you’ll know.”

He moved in closer, Bucky closing his eyes, then Steve pressed himself up and away. Bucky leaned up as if chasing after a kiss, his breath leaving him in a little gasp. Even in the darkness, Steve could see the flush in his cheeks. He smiled. “Good night, Buck.”

“Mmm hmm,” Bucky squeaked, as Steve crossed the room to head to bed. He closed the door behind himself, leaning his forehead against it to just breathe for a moment as he grasped at his dick through his pants, fat and heavy between his legs.

It was a bad idea. He’d known it even before overhearing Agent Romanoff’s warning on the back porch (Bucky had been right about the super hearing), but all he could seem to focus on was that Bucky wanted him. Steve may not be able to put a baby in him—he was still tickled by that turn of phrase—but he sure could rail him into the bed like he was trying to.

Steve imagined how stunning Bucky would look in his bed. His cherry red mouth would be open, head tilted back in tortured ecstasy, dark hair fanned out over the pillows. Chest heaving, his dark nipples would be swollen and tender from the attention Steve had given them. He bet Bucky had a pretty little cock, as pretty as the rest of him. Steve would make him wait for it, finger him open nice and slow, mark up the inside of those slim thighs with his teeth while he was down there. Until Bucky was begging for it, until he was crying, big fat tears shining in those gorgeous blue eyes—

His orgasm took him by surprise, swift and intense. Ribbons of hot come streaked across his belly and down his hand as he stripped his cock in a tight fist, his breath leaving him in bursts, heels digging into the mattress.

Even as he was coming down, sticky and sweating, he knew it wasn’t enough. He was still hard and aching, the damn serum a blessing when he was with a partner—boy, had he enjoyed wearing Peggy out on those rare moments they had all night together, sticking it to her until she couldn’t take anymore—a curse when he was left to deal with his frustrations alone. He wondered how many loads Bucky’s ass could take before he, too, begged Steve to stop.

“Well, aren’t you just a right pervert,” Steve said to himself, then grabbed his cock to start all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. So generally the way you find out when a word or phrase first existed is by finding its first use in publication. I can’t say I scoured the Library of Congress or anything, but “going straight” was a turn of phrase in the 1930s. “Straight” was derived from “going straight” and used to make fun of straight people. I tried to find when “gay” was first used both in publication and colloquially, also using anecdotal accounts of individuals in the community, and from what I can gather, it wasn’t really commonly used in its current iteration until decades later. Regardless of the accuracy of my substandard research, it is not outside of the realm of possibility that Steve may not know any of these words.
> 
> 2\. I am not a pizza historian, so take this with a grain of garlic salt, but pizza as we know it today was not prevalent in Steve’s era. It was only really consumed by Italian communities and didn’t become popular until after WWII from American soldiers who had spent time in Italy. It was also called “tomato pie” originally, and even if Steve ate that, it is dissimilar enough from pizza today for him to experience this new. My father was born during WWII and remembers afterwards as a child hearing about tomato pie for the first time in bars in New Jersey. They also allowed children in bars in the 40s lol.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and for all the kudos and comments. Drop me a line if you have the time. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think, if you have the time. <3


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